


Sun On The Back of My Neck

by dome_epais



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dome_epais/pseuds/dome_epais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint goes on a field trip and gets some unexpected company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun On The Back of My Neck

Clint has a free morning. Well… so he has a morning full of shit he can put off a little longer. Whatever, so he’s having some fun in the city.

He’s running a practice op that may be a tiny bit illegal – as Coulson likes to remind him, “If you have to disable more than one alarm, it’s probably illegal,” – but who cares? He’s done worse things than jimmy a roof-access door and really he’s doing the building security system a favor for finding all their cameras’ blind spots.

The heavy steel door budges open (silently, thanks to a little oil, though ‘leave it better than you found it’ is not usually SHEILD’s motto) and a blast of wind nearly yanks the handle out of Clint’s fingers.

He steps out onto the flat, concrete roof, looking across at the 65th floor of the building across the street. He runs a sharp eye over everything available; the two air conditioning units, the elevator maintenance room, the electrical access. That last would have been handy half an hour ago, when he was pretending to be an intern and taking down the roof security.

(Another of Coulson’s reminders: “If it takes you more than twenty minutes, Barton, it’s definitely illegal.”)

He pulls duct tape out of his pack – or, okay, messenger bag… it lent verisimilitude to the intern thing, shut up – and rips off a strip. He holds the door with his foot and tapes down the automatic deadbolt. It would be a little embarrassing to get locked on a roof, and he didn’t bring enough rope to go down the old fashioned way.

He closes the door and then he’s alone with the wind and the people below him and his thoughts.

Clint considers the air conditioning units for a perch – the gap between them would fit him, probably, and absolutely no one could see him – but that limits his own abilities, too. Not optimal for keeping his eyes on the rest of the world. It’s not like he’s looking for a shot, but… come on, what’s the point of a practice op if he doesn’t get a target?

So instead he rounds the shed-like elevator maintenance bulk and gets into its shadow. The taller buildings to the south and east can’t get eyes on him, and it opens up the northwest corner as his perch and target range.

Right. He tugs off his pack (still a messenger bag with authentic scrapes and fraying – he may or may not have borrowed it from a junior agent’s locker, but he’ll give it back before the end of the shift) and sets down his other burden. It’s a guitar case full of insulating foam, his bow, and a few modified arrows Stark has put together for him.

Clint lies down flat and worms up to the edge of the roof on his belly for the initial recon. There’s a two-foot rim around the rooftop to control water drainage, but when he gets his head over that, the AO is laid out for him neatly. He doesn’t even need binoculars from this height. 

It’s only an intersection, sure. It’s 0830 and the sidewalk is full of people with places to be. The cars are slowed by other traffic, naturally, but that kind of target would be too easy anyway.

Clint goes back for his case. He takes out his bow, sorts through the quiver he’s brought. The modified arrows are smaller but flat-nosed, suction-cupped like a nerf dart. So, yes, he’s totally looking for a shot, but…

(He imagines explaining this to Coulson when he finds out. A shrug and an offered, “The good news is, I didn’t have anything lethal with me,” is about as good as it gets.)

Ooh, as long as he’s thinking of Coulson. Clint takes his cell out of his pocket and sends the guy an email: _Going on a field trip. Bring you back lunch. Any requests?_

Then he gets back to the edge of the roof, kneels with his torso held at a careful angle, and draws his bow. The streets of New York are like wind tunnels; what he can feel does not reflect the wind variable of the middle of the street.

Practice shot, then. He aims for a streetlight on the near corner, corrects on an estimate, and lets it loose. The suction cup hits the pole… probably a few inches off, but okay. The shaft of the arrow unwinds a purple streamer, waving in the wind and probably looking like weird street art to the pedestrians who notice it. And there’s at least a better wind gauge.

His phone goes off, vibrating in his pocket. The email is from Coulson, of course. _What did I say about disabling alarms?_

Clint smirks at his phone, understanding the implied _I’ve got eyes on you._

He sends back, _Good news, nothing lethal,_ and settles in. This is going to be fun.

The time passes quick and easy, arrows released and small streamers decorating bike helmets and briefcases. One kid walks past with the biggest headphones Clint has seen since the eighties gasped their last; he gets an arrow right in the ear and it sticks easily. The kid doesn’t even notice.

He has about a half-dozen left when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Clint stands down, takes his phone out of his back pocket, and rests his bow across his knees when he sits cross-legged on the hot cement. He reaches for a water-bottle and washcloth; the shadows have shifted, and the back of his neck is probably sunburnt by now. Shit, it’s getting toward lunch as it is.

 _Put on sunblock and stay hydrated. Bring back gyros,_ the new email reads.

_Careful, sir. Those nanny programs are showing._

Clint sees something in his far periphery and snaps his head up. It’s in the air, smaller than an aircraft, moving fast. His first thought is of Iron Man or Thor – but the object uses a strange flight path. It dips and gains speed and rises and slows… and it’s getting closer by the second.

“Fuck,” Clint hisses, dropping his phone. He didn’t bring anything lethal from a distance. He has three knives, two of which he can throw at relatively short range. He gets his bow back in its case, but doesn’t bother taking off the quiver; it’s a waste of time and the only harm is an uncomfortable drop and roll.

The figure gets close enough to make out arms and legs. It’s using something like a series of grappling hooks; swinging on a rope until its apex, then casting out another. It says something about Clint’s life that he’s no longer surprised by humans traveling through the air.

Three blocks away, he can identify the blue and red costume. Spiderman, isn’t it? He’s been in the papers, and frankly, he sounds like a dick.

His phone buzzes at his feet. Probably Coulson, smelling that something’s up.

God damn it. Clint really needs even _one_ sharp arrow.

The guy stops flying, just lets go of one rope and keeps going in a descending arc. He’s coming from the south, hanging off of taller buildings than Clint’s perch, so when he lands it must be from a forty foot drop at least.

But he takes it in the knees, ends up crouching about fifteen feet away. It’s a defensive position; clearly he’s seen the knife between Clint’s thumb and first knuckle, ready to let fly.

“Whoa!” Spiderman says, waving his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Hey. Unnecessarily hostile reaction.”

“Maybe it is,” Clint shrugs. If he waited around to find out if every newcomer was a friendly, he’d be dead. 

They stay like that a few seconds, facing each other. Then Spiderman rubs the back of his head and relaxes his posture. “Uh, you gonna put that away?”

“That depends on whether you’re going to attack me.”

The masked head tilts thoughtfully. “What if I pinky-swore not to?”

Clint blinks, then laughs and lowers his arm. Shaking his head, he asks, “What is this, seventh grade? Jesus. Fine, neither of us is going to attack the other.” He sticks the throwing knife back in the sheath over his ribs and pulls his t-shirt straight. “Hang on a second.” He picks his phone up from the ground – it’s boiling hot from the sun, isn’t that bad for them?

He types, _All clear. Just an unexpected visitor._

“Seriously?” Spiderman asks. “What, need to tell facebook that you just met a costumed hero?”

Clint tucks the phone in his pocket and raises his eyebrows at the guy. The full-face mask looks like torture in the heat – sure, maybe it’s okay if you’re like Tony with air-conditioning, but even Steve’s cowl leaves him plastered with sweat. Some people and their secret identities.

“Uh… no. I see those all the time.” Clint takes the strap of the quiver and pulls it over his head. It’s close enough to lunch, anyway. Time to pack it in.

Spiderman moves closer, probably scuffing the ground on purpose to make noise. He looks curiously over Clint’s shoulder and cleverly observes, “That’s not a guitar.”

“No, it’s not,” Clint agrees. He packs his bow away properly this time, the quiver in the long upper neck of the case.

“Excuse me for expecting a guitar case to contain a guitar, dude,” Spiderman huffs. He’s definitely _way_ younger than Clint.

With a sigh, Clint rolls from his knees to the balls of his feet and grabs his messenger bag. “It would look a little weird to carry a weapons case everywhere in a civilian population.”

Spiderman crosses his arms and takes on a new, speculative tone. “So. I guess you’re not accidentally locked out on the roof, huh?” 

One incredulous, insulted look answers that.

“What? You wouldn’t believe how many people I pass just chillin’ and waiting for someone to come look for them. Usually they’re drunk and smoking up in the middle of the night, though.”

Clint shakes his head at him again. Talkative. Well, Clint’s used to that from most of the Avengers, anyway. Maybe it’s a hero thing. “Thanks for your concern, but I’ve got places to be.”

The kid follows him across the roof toward the door, still talking. “So… a bow? That’s what that was, right? Wait – you’re not Hawkeye, are you?”

“Guilty,” he answers, because what can it hurt? He pulls the thick metal door open and starts peeling the duct tape off the deadbolt. Leave no traces.

“You’re with the Avengers?” Spiderman asks, getting excited. “Dude! You guys saved the world!”

Clint shrugs again. There’s no way to sound humble while saying, Yeah, we totally did.

“You can, too,” says a voice from the cool interior of the stairwell. Clint swivels his head like Pavlov’s dog, just in time to see Coulson step around the corner of the first platform. He’s as bland and suited-up as ever. And he’s looking past Clint to Spiderman.

The kid takes a step back. “Okay, shady guys in suits, no bueno.”

“Sir,” Clint says, sticking out his foot to hold the door open, “I told you it wasn’t a threat.”

Coulson climbs the stairs, measured and careful, trying not to spook the new kid. “I’m not here about a threat. I’m here to tell you,” he nods at Spiderman, “that we’re always looking for new heroes. And perhaps to give you my card.”

Spiderman looks from Coulson’s bland smile to Clint.

Clint says, “Take the card. Think about it. If you’re an Avenger, you get to live with Tony Stark.”

“I try not to open with the disadvantages, Barton,” Coulson says. He reaches for his pocket – Spiderman tenses – and pulls out the actual little business card case that Clint recognizes from his own recruitment. He hands one sparse white card over to Spiderman. “Changing your place of residence is not necessary. We would need a way to contact you, and you would be expected to spend time training with the other Avengers during down time.”

Clint hears, _We already know where you live_ , and wonders if the kid picks up on it.

“Oh- _kaaaay_. But I don’t have a lot of down time. What with having a job and stuff. For bills and things,” Spiderman manages to stumble through.

“You’ll receive a retainer for your services,” Coulson says. Wow, Clint hasn’t seen him turn on the _I am not a threat_ beams to this level in a long time. “It will more than match your current income.”

Now, Clint _knows_ the kid caught that one. So SHIELD knows where Spiderman lives and works. Awesome. Way to freak him out right away.

“I’m just gonna go,” Spiderman says, sound a little weird. He waves at Clint and takes a running leap off the side of the building.

A web shoots up forty feet to adhere to the taller building east of their position, and then he’s off again, doing that dizzying swoop thing.

Yeah. Welcome to Clint’s life.

Clint looks at Coulson. “Even my field trips turn into recruitment missions, is that how it is?”

“I merely seized an opportunity,” Coulson answers. He jerks his head to summon Clint inside the stairwell and they begin their descent. It’s going to be a long way down, if they’re still avoiding cameras in the elevators. “We’ve been waiting for a chance to approach him in a non-emergency context. This was as good as any.”

“Whatever.” Clint’s stomach twists. “Oh, hey! Does this mean we can go out to lunch? I don’t even have to talk you out of your office. It’s _practical_.”

Coulson shoots Clint a stern look over one shoulder. He says, “Don’t expect to make a habit out of it. And I pick the place; I’m still in the mood for gyros.”

Clint grins at the back of his head and thinks Coulson can probably see it anyway. Then he points out, “That kid wanted to pinky-swear that he wouldn’t attack me. Sure he’s Avengers material?”

“At least he won’t automatically pick fights when he meets everyone.”

With a couple of hops, skipping some stairs, Clint comes level with Coulson’s shoulder, so they brush every other step. “I should take field trips more often. They turn out well.”

“There’s already a few tumblr posts about the avant-garde artist putting streamers all over that intersection,” Coulson informs him. “So maybe future field trips will have to be toned down.”

Clint bounced on the balls of his feet, biting his lip to keep from grinning. Lunch with Coulson, Spiderman less of a dick than expected, and people thinking he’s an artiste.

Next time he’ll have to outdo himself.


End file.
